


Skin

by babel



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Flogging, Kink, M/M, Masturbation, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Self-Harm, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-23
Updated: 2011-08-23
Packaged: 2017-10-22 23:26:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/243723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babel/pseuds/babel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sylar visits Mohinder's apartment while he's away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Skin

The apartment is empty.

The first thing Sylar does is start cleaning. Mohinder is as bad a housekeeper as his father was. Their minds were too full of the theoretical to bother with the physical world.

He's done this before.

__________

 _”You don't have to do that, Zane.”_

 _Mohinder stands in the doorway as Sylar arranges the newly-washed coffee mugs in the cupboard. He just woke up, and he has that rich Mohinder scent that Sylar enjoys. It's strange, because he typically hates the way people naturally smell._

 _“It's fine. I like cleaning.” He glances around. “And it kinda seems like you don't.”_

 _Mohinder just grins, his eyes heavy-lidded._

 _Sometimes, it's easy to forget they're only using each other._

__________

Sylar picks up all the books strewn in various parts of the living room and arrnanges them on alphabetical order. He picks up a used teacup next to the couch and washes it in the sink. He runs his fingertips along the cracks in the cabinet doors where a glass had crashed into them.

Eventually, he makes his way to the bedroom. The bed isn't even made.

He runs his fingers along the ridges and valleys of the twisted sheets. The touch fills his mind with disjointed memories. Mohinder's legs were here. He often wears long linen pajama pants to bed, but by the middle of the night they've rolled up to his knees. He sits up some nights reading or scribbling notes in his journal.

There is a flash of Mohinder fucking Maya there, her legs wrapped around him and her toes curled. Sylar jerks his hand away.

“Slut,” He whispers, his lips contorted into a smile. He's not sure which one of them he means. Probably Mohinder. He'd almost forgotten that Maya had ever existed.

He kicks off his shoes, setting them neatly next to the bed. Then, he slips out of his clothes, folds them, and stacks them on the chair. He steels himself against memories before he slides into the bed.

The DNA is there, and he absorbs it. Probably a stray hair, but he likes to think it's something else. His body begins to shift.

__________

 _After months of being alone, it's strange to travel with Mohinder. They make small talk, buy each other candy bars and soda at gas stations, and argue about who gets to control the heater and the radio. It would be easy to get used to this kind of life._

 _They're at a rest stop eating sandwiches at an old picnic table, and the words kind of come out of Sylar's mouth without warning, "I think you're probably the most gorgeous person I've ever seen."_

 _Mohinder blinks, taken off guard. A sweet smile begins to play on his lips. "Um. Well. Thank you, Zane."_

 _"Wow, that was super awkward," Sylar says with a laugh. It's so easy to be Zane; to simply be a nobody who is happy being nobody as long as he has someone more important to cling to. "I just mean, uh. Well, if I seem like I'm staring sometimes, I can't help it, man. You're, like, ridiculous. Are you married back in India?"_

 _"No," Mohinder answers quickly. A sore subject. Sylar has to bite the inside of his mouth to keep from smiling._

 _"Seriously? That's crazy."_

 _"You're not married either."_

 _Sylar looks down at his half eaten sandwich. "Yeah, well. I was kind of seeing someone a few months ago. He kind of stopped returning my calls, though. Not really over it, I guess."_

 _"Ah, I see." Mohinder chewed a bite of his sandwich thoughtfully. He swallowed before he added. "That's crazy too. I think if you try, you'd find most guys would return calls from someone like you."_

 _This time, Sylar lets himself smile._

 _They return to small talk, then. Sylar gets them a Snickers bar out of the vending machine, and they split it for dessert._

__________

Sylar runs his hand into his hair, smiling at the feeling of Mohinder's curls against his palm. He keeps his eyes up at the ceiling as he slides his hand down, over Mohinder's neck, and belly and another set of curls. He's already half hard, and he's pleased that Mohinder's cock feels the way he thought it would, warm and smooth and a little thicker than his own. He wishes he could feel it between his lips, against his tongue. He wishes he could hear the sounds Mohinder would make, the gasp of surprise, the moans.

He strokes himself loosely a few times, pressing his palm against the sheets with his other hand. Memories float in again, and he picks out the ones that he wants. There aren't many of Mohinder touching himself, but what ones he finds are quick, clinical.

"Oh, Mohinder," he whispers. Then, he laughs, delighted by the sound of his own accent in Mohinder's voice. "You don't want to admit that you have any passion at all, do you? But, I know you do."

He turns his head to the side to look for anything else that might give him the memories he wants. His eyes fall on a belt slung over a chair.

He pushes himself out of bed.

__________

 _Sylar lays in his motel room, staring up at the ceiling. The doubt is there, worse than it's been ever since that first time. Maybe even worse than the second time._

 _He could be like Zane. He could be normal._

 _He pushes himself out of bed and walks outside bare-footed to knock on Mohinder's motel room door. Waiting for the answer drags out like years. He repeats the mantra to himself; he could be normal. He could be nobody._

 _Mohinder's been sleeping. His eyes are a little bloodshot and he's squinting. He's wearing long linen pajama pants and an undershirt, and he's so beautiful that Sylar feels sick._

 _"What's wrong, Zane?" he finally asks._

 _Sylar locks eyes with Mohinder. He could be like Zane, but he needs that person to cling to, doesn't he? It's up to Mohinder now. He can have the blame if it goes wrong. The blame is his inheritance, afterall._

 _"I'm going to kiss you," Sylar says, and he does._

 _Mohinder lips are pliant, but passive, and after a few moments he rests his hands on Sylar's shoulders, pressing just hard enough that Sylar knows he should stop._

__________

Sylar wraps the end of the belt around his knuckles and grips it. When he used to do this in his own apartment, it would leave marks for days. Every time he moved, the fabric of his shirt would brush against blistered skin and remind him.

Things have changed since then. His reasons have changed too.

He grips the belt tight as he slings it over his shoulder, the other end cracking as it makes contact with his skin. He sucks in a breath. The pain is is brief and muted, but it's enough. He does it again. Then twice more in rapid succession.

He slides his hand between his legs. He's gone a little soft, so he starts stroking himself roughly, rubbing the skin raw.

This is what it is. He has to remind himself. It would not be some fantasy scenario; it would be exactly like this.

__________

 _Sylar goes back to his motel room to change clothes. He can't go to see Dale dressed like Zane. He's not Zane._

 _He pulls off his pants and looks down at himself. His cock is straining against his underwear. If anything, the humiliation of Mohinder's rejection had only made him harder.. He lets his fingers brush over his cock, then runs his nails along the inside of his thigh, leaving little red lines._

 _He traces over the lines again, tearing the skin open with his telekinesis. He needs the reminder._

 _By the time he's left his motel again, he's convinced himself that it was just a play to gain more of Mohinder's trust. It failed. That's all._

__________

Sylar cracks the belt against his thighs--Mohinder's thighs. The skin darkens briefly before it heals. He squeezes his cock as he slaps the belt across his skin again and again. He won't let himself get soft. The jolts of pain are becoming more sharp with each repeated slap of leather and metal, as if his healing ability can't quite keep up. He goes faster, trying in vain to overcome it completely.

He finally gives up, sitting and panting. He unwraps the belt from his hand and loops through the buckle. He slides it down over his cock to the base and tightens it until the pressure hurts.

He begins to stroke himself again.

__________

 _Sylar the edge of the motel bed, looking down at his hands. The blood is beginning to flake now. He keeps hoping that Mohinder will somehow catch him like this. But he doesn't, of course._

 _No, he's in the next room, breathing deeply, his heart beating at a slow, steady rhythm. The sound is intercut by a thousand other sounds--cars going by outside, the buzz of the hotel lights, the tip-toeing of cockroaches--but he can hear Mohinder under it all, constant in all the chaos._

 _He pulls off his shirt, then unfastens his belt. It's an old habit he thought he was finished with. His mother had caught him jerking off one time, and the guilt had been so intense, he'd developed a thousand ways of punishing himself for every sexual thought. This had been the only effective one. He hates pain, always has._

 _The reasons have changed, though. It's not the ache between his legs, but the one in his chest._

 _Leather snaps against skin, and the sound of it cuts through his skull, leaving him gasping in pain._

__________

Sylar is propped up on pillows, keeping the belt tight with one hand and stroking with the other. He looks at the bulging vein, the way the head rolls slightly upward with each upstroke, and he imagines how Mohinder would beg; to let him come or to just stop. Sylar only allows himself soft moans of pain or pleasure in Mohinder's voice.

Afterall, this is his punishment. He can't enjoy it _too_ much.

He keeps stroking until his hands are shaking and his thigh muscles are twitching with need. Finally, he loosens the belt. A dribble of come squeezes from the tip, but he doesn't touch himself. He doesn't let himself come even as his body screams for it. He pushes his hips up a couple of times, uselessly seeking relief from the cool air.

He allows himself to run his fingers into Mohinder's one more time before he shifts back to himself.

__________

 _Mohinder knocks on the door the next morning and offers Sylar a cup of coffee from the continental breakfast. He smiles politely and takes it._

 _Neither of them mention the kiss._

 _Sylar gets in the car. He cringes as he rubs his blistered back against the seat, layers of fabric creating a nearly unbearable friction._

 _"Are you all right?" Mohinder asks._

 _Sylar looks at him for a long moment, not bothering to wear Zane's innocent smile. When he does smile, it's his own. "Yes."_

 _Mohinder smiles back, but Sylar can see a hint of suspicion in the crinkles around his eyes. He turns on the radio, sending a shockwaves of sound into Sylar like knives. He draws a sharp breath, then lets the pain settle in._

 _Underneath the noise of the engine and the radio and the wind pelting the outside of the car, Sylar hears Mohinder's breathing, his heart beating._

 _He presses his back harder into the car seat._

__________

Sylar makes the bed, savoring a few more memories as he flattens the sheets against his palms. He puts his clothes back on, the fabric is frustratingly soft against his smooth skin. He tears out a sheet of paper from the journal sitting on Mohinder's bedside table and writes a note.

 _You're still gorgeous. -S_

 _P.S. I took the belt that was on the chair. Consider it payment for the housecleaning._


End file.
